The Clarity of a Distorted Reflection
by xfphile
Summary: Mirror, Mirror, on the wall . . .


A/N: Wow, I've added another fandom that it seems I now write for - and in less than 8 months. Huh. So that *was* a pig I saw flying by. Anyway, it seems I've come to the 'Death in Paradise' ship a bit late - my local station just picked it up a few weeks ago, so we're still in the first season. And despite my love for the show in virtually every respect, there were some things that bothered me - Camille's attitude in the beginning, for one, Richard's tolerance of it for another, and the subsequent, rather abrupt, change of heart after the third episode. I wanted to know what happened to cause that change, but I found nothing (which, like as not, means I didn't look in the right place). So, FIC! was born.

This is unbeta'd and non-Brit or Caribbean-picked, so let me know if there are any glaring errors. Also, concrit is love, reviews are awesome, and readership is adored. Flames, however, will be sent back to you magnified to the power of Pi.

Timewise, this fic picks up a few days after the conclusion of _Predicting Murder_ (S01E03). Enjoy!

* * *

**_ The Clarity in a Distorted _ _ Reflection _**

For one of the first times since his arrival on Saint Marie, Detective Inspector Richard Poole was thankful that things had been quiet since solving Angelique Morel's mu—suic—case. Thankful, but apprehensive. He was still neither comfortable nor happy on the island, but as it was obvious the situation wasn't changing in the immediate future, he had resigned himself to the unexpected turn his life had taken.

Of course, he had no intention of letting his team know that; their reactions to his not well-hidden (read: not hidden at all, if he were being honest) dislike of his involuntary transfer to this prison masquerading as 'paradise' was extremely telling about their personalities. And such far, he had few complaints or problems with Dwayne and Fidel; they didn't understand him, but they were beginning to appreciate him – and while their personal respect was growing in fits and starts (mostly caused by him, he admitted), they both showed strong respect for his position.

Camille Bordey, on the other hand . . .

Oh, yes. He was angry with her. He was angry, he was upset, he was insulted, and he had finally had enough. It was past time for Detective Sergeant Bordey to have a few home truths explained to her. He was meek and unassuming largely by choice – at an early age, Richard had discovered that he never would be the biggest or strongest boy on the playground, and while he could intellectually outrun most of them, that never saved him from pain or humiliation. So, like most people with a sense of self-preservation, he'd developed camouflage. He went out of his way to appear harmless – even a little bumbling, at times – but beneath the not quite well-tailored suits he favoured, his body was lean with muscle. Camille's assertion that she 'could almost certainly beat him in a fistfight' would not have ended nearly as well as she was obviously thinking.

Memory of that conversation brought a small grimace to his face, because she had been right to call him on some of his behaviour – and he had adjusted his attitude accordingly.

It had not escaped his notice that he had not been afforded the same courtesy, even three cases after that talk.

Well, he was done with that. He understood that he needed to earn her trust and respect, and had no problems with that. She had to earn his, after all, and he wasn't so big a hypocrite as that. But her insistence on interrupting him – in front of witnesses, their team, and the commissioner, to name a few – when he was asking questions was . . . no, it _had_ pissed him off, as had her continued habit of arguing with him each time he did something she didn't immediately understand – while simultaneously expecting him to back everything _she _did – and that wasn't even taking into account her refusal to do a task he assigned her if she saw it as demeaning or (he suspected) she just didn't want to do it. For all her talk (and bragging, justified though it might have been) about graduating top of her class and having multiple commendations, Richard strongly suspected that his sergeant truly thought he'd walked into the Met's police training academy and been handed a DI's badge simply because he was a white male.

Which also brought up the contradictory nature of her attitude – she openly defied his orders if she didn't like them, but she'd taken responsibility for arresting Nicholas Dunham when the Commissioner called them on it (which was, on reflection, another reason he suspected she had issues with him being male _and _white). And he had backed her up, both with Dunham and later the Commissioner, because he wasn't going to humiliate her like that . . . but his patience had worn thin and the odds were good something was going to come out with or without his permission.

Hence this conversation.

And no. The constant, not-hidden-at-all contempt would no longer be happening. It was true that he would never know what it meant to be female or black, but he was damned if he was going to apologize for being what he was. He'd worked long and hard for his rank and his position and he highly resented the implication that they were free and unearned . . . especially given his solve rate _with this team_. If nothing else, that was a clue that things with him should not be a case of judging a book by its cover.

He was done with that, too. Her contempt for his choice of dress was grating, particularly since it was coupled at her complete lack of understanding as to _why _he chose to wear a full suit and tie, her disbelief at his never taking anything at face value was aggravating, and her vocal sneers accompanying everything she 'explained' about Saint Marie – or, well, most things outside of England, actually – were infuriating. It wasn't like he'd _asked _for this assignment, after all, and it should have been obvious to a blind man that he was out of his depth in a lot of (too many) respects.

But did she offer him any actual assistance? Was there any attempt at adjusting _any _of her standards and way of thinking to accommodate him? No. No, all he got was sneering contempt and vocal putdowns.

If he wanted that, he'd have made a hell of a lot more effort to stay in Croydon.

And while he wasn't giving Dwayne and Fidel a pass on their lack of assistance, he had come to realize that it was mostly a combination of 'constable to inspector' and 'we really don't get it, but you're our boss, so okay.' And to be fair, he didn't necessarily want assistance from Camille (the thought made him shudder; the levels of awkwardness might actually drown the island), What he _did_ want – and expect, both as her superior officer and as a fellow human being – was for his differences and choices to be understood as much as could be done. Their ways of life were completely alien to each other, but her attitude had made him dig in his heels and halt every attempt he'd made, thought about making, and might have made in the future, to integrate himself more fully. He had his pride.

Right. Well, he'd never claimed to be a saint, now had he?

He waited until nearly 7:30 to allow for any last-minute murders, robberies, or goat-stealing to occur before calling it a day.

"It's late," he announced, watching with well-hidden amusement as Dwayne jerked to near-full wakefulness and Fidel blinked at him in surprised hope. Camille merely looked impassive.

"So," he continued, setting his water bottle on the corner of his desk as he got to his feet, "have a good night and I'll see you in the morning."

"Yes, Sir," Fidel replied with a smile, grabbing his sunglasses and heading for the door. He paused before opening it and looked back, his manner hesitant. Richard was puzzled until the young man stumbled over an invitation to join him and his wife for drinks. It was tempting, but Richard declined – and not solely because he needed to talk to his sergeant. It might be a rather lonely existence, but both observation and experience had taught him that making friends of your employees never ended well.

For one of the first times, he regretted that.

Ah, well. There was no help for it, so with a mental shake of his head and an apologetic smile, he declined with only a minimum of stuttering and his constables left with no further delays. Camille was gathering her things when he turned back and he watched her for another few seconds before clearing his throat. Surprised, she looked up – and Richard gritted his teeth at the contempt he could see behind the curiosity. Any reservations he had about initiating this conversation vanished and he schooled his features to neutrality.

"Did you want something?" she drawled, slinging her purse over a shoulder.

"Yes," he replied firmly, involuntarily straightening. "We need to talk, Sergeant."

Something like concern (or worry) flashed across her face at that, but it was gone too quickly to identify and that faint hint of disdain he'd become accustomed to glittered in her eyes again. A slight sneer curled across her mouth as she said, "Well, it better not take long. I ha—"

Her arrogant presumption finally overwhelmed his patience and Richard snapped, "It will take as long as it takes, _Sergeant_. I suggest you take a seat."

Shock plainly painted across her features, she slowly obeyed. In a distant part of his mind, Richard absently noticed that he got no satisfaction from this; rather, he just felt tired.

Once she was sitting down, he paced forward until he was directly in front of her, saying nothing and watching as she became more and more wary. After nearly a minute of silence, Richard locked his hands behind his back and said, "I have been extremely patient with you, Sergeant, but no more. You have gone entirely too far in regards to myself and my position and, what's worse, you don't realize it. That will change – now – or I will call the commissioner."

Camille's shocked look was amusing in the extreme, but it also stirred anger in Richard, because it was patently obvious that she truly didn't realize how condescending and disrespectful she was to him. Worse, she thought nothing of it. He _wasn't_ used to working with a partner, as that had been something everyone in the station at Croydon had avoided like the proverbial plague, and so he was willing to admit that he hadn't behaved as well as he should have in their first few cases – but neither had she, and while she had no problem pointing _his _flaws out, Camille was remarkably blind to her own nature . . . which was not something he was looking forward to bringing up, as it was sure to cause an explosion that might sink this wretched island. Unfortunately, he had no choice: not only was he done with that nonsense, but (more importantly to her) she was a sergeant with higher aspirations and she wouldn't succeed in rising through the ranks without a well-honed sense of self, the ability to recognize her weaknesses, and the strength of character it took to not only admit them but work with and around them. At the moment, she possessed none of these qualities.

(an observer might have said the same about him, but Richard was actually remarkably self-aware – almost excruciatingly so, in fact. He'd had to be, in order to survive first school and then the academy. He'd simply learned (at a long, painful cost) to keep himself as quiet and unobtrusive as possible; also, being underestimated was infinitely preferable to the alternative, which was one of the reasons his solve rate was so high; after all, who would expect hapless DI Poole to notice something as mundane as too much lime in the ingredients to build a porch – never mind realize what it actually meant?)

The stunned look in her eyes didn't lessen, but Richard also saw defiance and a rebuttal and moved with ruthless intent to cut them both off at the pass.

Hmm. He hadn't realized quite how angry he actually was. This would need to be examined later – as the head of the Saint Marie police department, he _must_ comport himself with dignity and control at all times. This did not translate to being a doormat, mind, but there was a fine line to walk – or rather, there would be, once he and his sergeant understood each other.

"I'm fully aware that you're angry and resentful about being moved to Saint Marie," he told her, his voice clipped. "And I understand that perfectly well. It isn't like I'm jumping for joy, either, now am I?" he added rhetorically, moving on before she could she even begin to reply. "I'm also aware that you hold me primarily responsible for your 'exile,' and there's where I take issue," he continued in a soft, dangerous tone that had rarely crossed his lips. It seemed that Camille recognized that danger, because she went absolutely still.

Good.

"And the reason I take issue is because YOU decided not to inform me that there was another investigation being held into James Lavender. Yes," he snapped, heading off that objection as well and again shocking her into stillness (which was more satisfying than it should have been), "I know that you suspected a police officer was helping him and don't quibble with your decision to keep that knowledge away from the officers at this station. But keeping the information from _me_ was both foolish and short-sided — not only had I been in Croydon for more than a decade, I also caught you not once but **twice** somewhere you shouldn't have been. And, seeing as you knew I was investigating Charlie Hulme's murder – because even if I hadn't told you, the Commissioner did – then _you_ are the one who was careless and got caught. As such, given that **_I didn't know you were an officer, much less investigating the same case_**, do you _really_ think you have the right to bear a grudge when I acted on what my training and your actions told me was a strong possibility?"

He paused here to allow her to respond, but got nothing except a wide-eyed gaze still filled with shock . . . and the beginning of what looked like guilt. Or understanding. Either way, it was heartening to see.

"No?" he checked, just to make sure. "Good. Glad to see we're in agreement with that, at least. Now, having said that, I will apologize for inadvertently blowing your cover. I know that doesn't make it better and I'm not expecting it to, but . . . it's there, nonetheless."

Silence.

"Well," he continued when she gave him nothing but a look where amazement, a small amount of guilt, and what appeared to be the beginnings of anger were battling for dominance, "now that that's out of the way, let's move on to the more serious issue."

He held her gaze for a long, tense moment, finally allowing her to see his full personality and feeling both gratified and disappointed when her eyes widened with nervous surprise. Had she really paid so little attention to him?

It seemed the answer was 'yes,' if her demeanor was anything to go by, and that just pissed him off more – a fact that he turned away to hide. Yes, he went to a great deal of effort to project an aura of 'harmless and bumbling,' but a little work would reveal that for the partial mask it was. Dwayne could attest to that (and if the memory of the man's dropped jaw and astonished expression at his revelation of Lily's crimes made him smile, well, he was only human).

His jaw firming, Richard turned back to Camille and pinned her with a harsh, unwavering glare. "The crux of the issue," he began without preamble, showing no reaction at her slight start of surprise, "is this: I do not care in the slightest what you think of me personally. I truly don't. And I understand that professionally, _I _need to earn your respect – and that's the way it should be. But my **position **is an entirely different matter, and it's obviously something you've failed to grasp. So I'm going to lay it out for you," he finished in an implacable voice, still refusing to relinquish her gaze.

He allowed only a few seconds of silence this time before moving forward.

"You seem to think that _you _are in charge of this station and this team, and that is a mindset I will no longer tolerate. Like it or not – and yes, I'm well-aware that you don't – I am your DI. Therefore, it is my orders you will follow and my rules you obey. That means – _no,_" he interrupted when she opened her mouth, causing yet another start of surprise and a flare of resentment to spark in her eyes. The former sent a small wave of satisfaction coursing through him, mixed with shame. He was perilously close to bullying her and he _hated _it, but experience with her thus far had shown that nothing else would really work. She didn't yet do subtlety – at least when it came to him, he conceded – leaving the verbal equivalent of blunt force trauma as the only other choice (which was why he really should have done this before he lost his patience. Lesson learned.).

"No," he continued in a softer tone, trying to keep this from becoming antagonistic. "This is not at all a slur on your abilities, but the fact remains that you are a sergeant and I am an inspector. More importantly, I'm _your_ inspector. And as such, you will give me the respect my position demands. That means that you will not interrupt me on crime scenes if I'm doing – or not doing, as the case may be – something you don't understand or agree with."

Now her mouth set in a mutinous line and he inwardly sighed. It seemed that he had failed in the 'non-antagonistic' department. And damned if that didn't spark his own temper.

"And don't even think about arguing with me, because I have multiple witnesses to that exact behaviour at Angelique Morel's crime scene – you know, the one where we weren't initially sure whether or not it was murder? The one where I had an easy way to determine that very thing? The one where you not only ignored me and what I was doing, but _actively _spoke over me like I wasn't there? Ring any bells?"

Sarcasm was dripping off his words when he stopped but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Not when, behind the shock plastered on her face, Camille was obviously thinking and thinking hard. When a surprised expression overtook the shock, he allowed himself to relax a little. When shame flashed through her eyes (immediately buried though it was), he permitted himself the luxury of a single deep breath.

"That's not acceptable, Camille. Not only did you completely undermine my authority with Dwayne and Fidel, you also showed a potential murder suspect a divided, fractured team. It's one of the reasons he was able to play us so easily the first time."

Remembered humiliation and frustration gleamed in her eyes for a minute and Richard fully sympathized. Nicholas Dunham's smug, condescending arrogance had made him positively itch to knock a few of his teeth down his throat.

But. That was neither here nor there, and he couldn't afford to get off-track.

"Also," he went on, his voice considerably softer now that he could see the effect his words were having, "it means that if I assign a task to you, it's because I want _you_ to do it. And again, it is not a slur against you or doubt in your abilities. But even if that were the case," and here Camille gave him a startled look, "then you may question me all you like . . . in private. There will not be a repeat of the incident where I asked you to get information about the bride's family when Lisa Mitchell was murdered and you refused to do so, going so far as to hand the list to Fidel and order him to do it while you forced yourself into what you obviously thought was the more important task. Again in front of me, I might add – and with Fidel and Dwayne watching."

He paused here for a breath and inwardly groaned when the mutinous look came back to her face. Well, this had been going surprisingly smoothly so far, so a bump (or twelve) in the road was only to be expected.

That didn't mean he had to like it, mind, but seeing as he didn't like this entire conversation, at least it was consistent.

"Has it never occurred to you that I gave you that assignment because you _are _a sergeant, and so would have a much better idea of the information we would more likely need than Fidel would? Or that, because you're a sergeant and he is not, your rank and the corresponding authority would likely gain you more cooperation? Or even that, given we're a force of *four* people, distribution of the so-called 'probie' tasks cannot be allocated as anyone would expect?"

He paused expectantly but again got no response. It was . . . highly satisfying.

It was also making him a bit dizzy; he hadn't realized how tense he'd been from holding this in and the release was affecting him more than he'd expected. He was either going to sleep spectacularly well tonight or pull an all-nighter from the excess energy (with his luck, it'd be the latter. Wonderful. Something to look forward to.).

But even as he shook off that last thought, he noticed the stiffness slowly leaving Camille's shoulders, and knew it was time to bring this to a close. He'd made his point; there was absolutely no reason to belabour this, and she also needed to understand some of the things he expected from her as his sergeant, things she needed to know for her own career path and other things he wanted her to learn for reasons of his own.

"Now, I'm not saying you can't have or ask questions – far from it," he nearly exclaimed, as it was a thought that had only just occurred to him. "But you have to start showing the respect for me that you demand for yourself. Because if you're truly being honest, Camille, you'll admit that if anyone – including the Commissioner – interrupted you in the middle of a question to a potential suspect, you'd be furious, and if Dwayne or Fidel refused to do something you told to them to, you wouldn't even bother shooting them; you'd just strangle them with your bare hands. Why would you think I'd be different . . . or not deserve the same courtesy?"

Silence - and one that was much more fraught than the last one.

It was – not broken, but augmented with the reluctant understanding and even more reluctant agreement he finally saw in her eyes, and Richard heaved a relieved sigh (internally, of course; he wasn't an idiot (well, not a complete idiot, anyway)).

His voice was gentle when he continued and the difference caught her attention. Wide-eyed with surprise and a lingering trace of resentment (which was to be expected; his being right didn't mean she had to like it, after all), the overriding emotion he saw now was curiosity – and what might, possibly, if he tilted his head and squinted, be the beginnings of respect. Or maybe understanding. Well, whichever. It was as good a beginning as he could hope for and that was really all he could ask for. Time alone would tell whether further action was needed.

"That's – well, that's it, really," he said quietly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck and wishing longingly for an ice pack to help alleviate this unrelenting heat. "I should probably have something suave to say here, but that's not something I've ever – well, it's not something I number in my list of talents, so I shall simply say this: you're a good officer, Camille, and despite the circumstances and our not-so-auspicious start, I'm very glad we're on the same team and look forward to future cases."

He paused and gave her an earnest look, hoping she would see his sincerity. A blank expression greeted him and he sighed again (still inwardly, because he hadn't suddenly become an idiot) before forging on, abruptly desperate to be done with this. Also, Camille had made no attempt to speak after the one try he had so firmly nipped in the bud, and it was making him nervous. Camille Bordey was many, many things – most of them admirable – but 'quiet' didn't make the list. It didn't even rate an honourable mention.

Of course, it was possible that she was thinking about what he'd said and didn't yet feel that she could answer him with any kind of affirmative until she'd sorted it out in her own head.

He hoped.

Well, he'd know soon enough. With a wan smile that she either didn't see or ignored, he finished with, "You can take tomorrow morning, if you like. Should something come up, I'll call you."

Her head snapped up at that but he only caught it in his peripheral vision, as he'd turned to leave and was in the midst of grabbing his briefcase. He gave a few seconds' thought to seeing if she wanted to say anything but another wave of dizziness washed over him and he decided against it, making his way to the door. He'd said everything he needed to and if Camille wanted to talk to him about any of it, doubtless she'd do it the next time they saw each other – and if that meant coming to his bungalow and ambushing him, she would.

Without looking back, Richard emerged from Saint Marie's police station into the still-blinding evening sun . . . and promptly tripped over the water bottle Fidel had apparently discarded when he left.

Knowing that Camille could see from where she was sitting, he made a split-second decision to _show_ her a hint of who he really was – and smoothly, easily, adjusted his balance and kept walking without so much as a bobble. He was still just close enough to the open door to hear her sharply indrawn breath of surprise.

With a slightly smug grin, he continued down to the road and after just a moment of thought, headed home, feeling a little more optimistic about his future here and resolving to relax some of his own attitudes as well. Maybe he _could_ survive on this island that falsely advertised itself as paradise.

But he'd still sacrifice a goat for some cold rain and if it would bring actual _snow, _then he'd even dance naked in front of a fire.

That thought brought back memories of their last murder case and at the reminder, Detective Inspector Richard Poole did something he'd not even been vaguely tempted to in the two months he'd been here: he laughed out loud, in public, for what seemed to be no apparent reason.

And promptly stumbled over a loose rock, nearly face-planting into the dirt of the road. Swearing under breath and rubbing at his now sore ankle, he glared down at the unassuming obstacle before giving a rueful smile.

Well, if nothing else, he wouldn't be bored here and for now?

He could live with that.

~~~~~  
_finis_


End file.
